The memory of my childhood is not one you could ever call a childhood to begin with. I grew up knowing the truth of life too early. But it all began when I was seven years old. I was not athletic. I was chubby and loved food too much. It was a rainy day in the village when I went out to play with my friends. I was timid, so they made me the goalkeeper.
"Hey pig!" Gary called out to me. He was the biggest among us, and he bullied me every chance he got because of my size.
"Yes sir…" I rushed to him as fast as my little legs could carry me.
"You are slow!" the tall, muscular, dark haired boy shouted as he grabbed my hair and threw me against a barricade. "Learn to answer when I call you! You piece of overweight filth!" His voice echoed against the wet earth as the rain poured harder.
"Get up! You are the goalkeeper," he commanded, his voice sharp with cruelty. "And if a single ball gets past you, you are dead meat."
"Yes master Gary," I answered, my voice shaking through tears as I stood weakly.
The game began. The ball shot toward me with terrifying speed. I tried to block it with my small arms. The impact hit my chest like thunder. "Ouch…" I groaned, my body trembling under the force.
"Hey pig!" Gary yelled again. "Kick that ball and score now! Make sure it goes in!"
"If it doesn't, you are dead meat!" Albert, his friend, laughed wickedly.
"You think he could even be cooked?" Gary sneered. "He is too useless for that. Maybe dogs would not even want him." Their laughter filled the air, louder than the rain.
I felt the sting of their words, but I didn't fight back. I took a deep breath and kicked the ball with all my strength. It soared high into the air and flew over the goalpost. For a brief second, I smiled, thinking I had won. But my joy was short lived.
A fist collided with my face.
"I said score!" Gary shouted, punching me again.
"Stop hitting me, you are hurting me!" I cried, my voice weak under the storm.
"This pig needs a lesson," Albert said as both boys kicked and punched me until my body fell limp in the muddy field.
"Is he dead?" Albert asked, his voice trembling. He poked at me with a stick.
"You people should stop hitting me…" I whispered weakly, my body shaking.
"Let's go before someone finds us," Gary muttered, fear creeping into his voice. They ran away, their laughter fading into the rain.
Later that evening, before my father returned home drunk as usual. My mother was tending to my wounds.
"Again?" she said, her voice heavy with worry. "You went out and got yourself hurt. Are you not tired of being beaten like this?"
"Who did this to you?" Cecilia asked, her eyes filled with anger and concern. "Who hurt my little brother like this?"
"They are big, sister. Stronger than me," I said, trying to calm her.
"But still, who would hurt you so badly over a game?" my mother asked as she gently applied medicine to my wounds.
"They are just kids from the neighborhood. They say mean things to me, but I am not angry. I hold no grudge," I said softly.
"Aww, my sweet baby boy," my mother whispered, pulling me to her chest.
"My wounds still hurt, Momma," I laughed weakly. "You are not angry with me?"
"Why should I be? You are my sweet boy. I love you very much. But sometimes you must fight back. Never let anyone make fun of you, do you understand?"
"Yes, Momma," I smiled.
At that moment, my father's voice cut through the room. "You there. Come here, brat!"
"Yes, Father," I said as I approached him carefully.
He swung the bottle in his hand and smashed it against my head. Pain exploded through me as I screamed.
"James!" my mother cried out, rushing to hold me. "Do you want to kill our son?"
"Is he not my child? Do I not have the right to do what I want with him?" he shouted. He turned toward her with fury. "And you, what are you doing here?" In an instant, he slapped her across the face.
"You can hit me all you want," my mother said, tears streaming down her cheeks. "But don't you dare touch my son. If you do not value what God gave you, do not destroy it."
"Why should I care about what God gave me?" my father shouted, his voice breaking as he staggered. "He made us poor. He took away our family fortune. And now I have lost my job!" His words collapsed into sobs.
"Daddy, you lost your job? I am sorry," Cecilia whispered, reaching to comfort him.
"Don't touch me!" he screamed. "If only I never got involved with you useless people!"
"Daddy, do you hate us?" I asked, wiping blood and tears from my face. "Why do you always beat Mommy and Cecilia? Why do you hurt us every time you are angry? Do you hate us?" My voice cracked. I turned to my mother, crying. "Mommy, why did you marry a man who does not love us? Why did you get married at all?"
"There is no way your father would..." her words were cut short by his voice. Cold and dark.
"Yes, I do, Harry," he said quietly, his eyes empty of emotion. He patted my head slowly. "Come with me."
He led me to the basement.
"Where are you taking my son?" my mother cried. "Is he the source of your problems? Did he take your job? Or did you lose it gambling and drinking again?"
"Shut your mouth!" he roared, pulling out a horse whip. He struck her. Again and again. Her screams echoed through the night.
"If I never met you, I would still have my family!" he shouted as he hit her. "You ruined my life, you filthy woman!"
Her cries filled the house as my sister and I ran into the street calling for help.
"Please help my mother! He is going to kill her!" we cried, knocking on every door.
"It is them again," one woman whispered. "Do not get involved."
"Leave them alone," her husband said. "When they kill each other, we will call the cops."
I froze when I heard that. Those words stayed in my heart.
We returned home. My father was still beating my mother with a pan. I could only stand there and watch in despair. No one cared. The world outside our walls was silent. Heartless.
"What kind of legacy are you leaving?" my mother screamed through tears. "You are destroying your children's souls! You are destroying your family!" Her voice broke under the weight of pain as the whip tore through her clothes and burned her skin.
And I do not know what made me do it. I still do not know what drove me that night. But I did it.